


Good At Many Things

by birdie7272



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 5+1 Things, Alternate Universe, Best Friends, Crack, Fluff, Fluff and Crack, Hugs, I mean unless you look for it, No Slash, One Shot, Tea, Why the half? I don't freaking know. Work with me ;), dribble, ish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-03
Updated: 2017-08-03
Packaged: 2018-12-10 20:19:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11699184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/birdie7272/pseuds/birdie7272
Summary: Five (and a half) times Sherlock lied to John about the tea and one time he did not.





	Good At Many Things

 

 

 

John H. Watson is good at many things.  Sherlock willingly admits John can be quite useful.  After all, Sherlock cannot be expected to exceed at every little thing.  Not that he is unable, but he is only interested in the incredible, such as the complexities of his flatmate.  The warrior healer who can put a bullet in your arm and sew it up afterwards.  Who can not only play but win at darts pissed off his arse and swigging down tequila.  Who can mend a shoe torn open in the thrill of the chase.  Who can quiet the younger unruly civilians using only a quarter and a smile.  Who can make pasta and peas into a five star meal.  

 

Yes, John is good at many things.  However, there is one particular thing John does not in any way exceed.  

 

  1. Lestrade



 

“What the-” Lestrade gasped and shoved his cup to the tabletop.

 

John and Sherlock both looked at him, John curiously and Sherlock with his eyes wide, praying that a human with just above average intelligence would not be so stupid as to actually tell John what was wrong.

 

“Alright?” John asked, sipping on his own cup of tea.

 

Lestrade caught Sherlock’s eye, his face first horrified, then red with guilt, and then confused.  Sherlock wanted to mouth ‘ _don’t be a moron’_ but luckily for them both, Lestrade seemed to comprehend Sherlock’s silent warning.

 

“Too hot,” Lestrade said, completely unconvincingly -he was British after all and boiling was the way to go- but poor, simple, naive John simply smiled in apology and turned back to the case laid out in front of them, perusing the photos of a dead man chopped up and thrown over pigs who were nibbling away happily.

 

Lestrade had the sense to wait until John was out of the room to turn to Sherlock.  “Did you mess with the tea?”

 

Sherlock sucked in a breath, knowing this moment would come the moment John uttered, ‘ _Anyone want tea?_ ’  

 

Sherlock had naturally refused, as any sane man would, but Lestrade had completely agreed, even egged John into making Sherlock a cup ' _just in case_ '.  

 

“No,” Sherlock replied firmly, expecting that to be the obvious end to the questioning.  

 

Lestrade, however, was horrible at social cues and interrogated away.  “Has the tea gone bad?  Could you not taste it?  That was bloody awful.”

 

“Then don’t drink it,” Sherlock growled, his eyes flicking towards the hall.  John would be out of the bathroom soon.

 

“Maybe it’s something left in my cup from one of your experiments,” Lestrade continued the torture and held up his mug.  “Here, switch with me.”

 

“No,” Sherlock hissed.  “Now drop it.”

 

Lestrade looked at him oddly and set his cup down on the table once again.  “Alright.”

 

Of course Lestrade did not understand Sherlock meant he should actually drop the mug itself, sending the vile liquid concoction spattered all over the rug and onto the kitchen floor.  

 

John walked in a moment later, picking his tea back up and taking a long sip, smacking his lips as he usually did after such a gulp.  

 

“John-” Lestrade started and Sherlock could see it all unfolding in his mind.

 

Lestrade would tell John the tea was a tad off, no doubt blaming Sherlock.  John would pour him a new, clean glass as any proper host would.  Lestrade would take a sip and spit it back out, probably all over John’s confused face.  John would take a sip and say nothing was wrong with it.  The nightmare would commence.

 

“-I think,” Lestrade continued.

 

“John-” Sherlock quickly cut him off as he grabbed Lestrade’s arm, _tightly._  “Geoffrey and I need to have a talk in my bedroom.  Alone.  Please do continue to peruse the case in our absence.  Shouldn’t be a minute.”

 

 _Gaze to hand on arm.  To crotch._  
_Eyebrows lifting slightly.  
Tongue darting out to lip._

 

John was such a sexual creature.  Horribly nauseating.

 

“Oh, do keep it in your pants,” Sherlock snapped and pushed at Lestrade, moving him out of the kitchen.

 

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” John snapped defensively, but Sherlock was already around the corner and had shoved Lestrade into his room.

 

With a definite slam of the door, Sherlock rounded on the confused imbecile.

 

 _Gaze to bed.  To mouth._  
_Brows furrowed._  
_Hands in pockets.  
Legs crossing._

 

Lestrade simply did not understand sarcasm, did he?

 

“I did not bring you in here to have my way with you.”  Sherlock rolled his eyes and threw his hands on his hips.  

 

Lestrade guiltily removed his hands from his pockets and asked, “Why did you bring me in here?”

 

“You cannot tell John.”

 

“Tell him what?”

 

Sherlock groaned aloud.  It were moments like these that made him want to put himself in a coma if only to get a reprieve from the tedium of answering stupid, obvious questions that, with clear context, did not make it all that difficult to grasp.

 

Sherlock enunciated as if he were a normal speaking to a goldfish.  “You cannot tell John that his tea is bad.”

 

Lestrade stared like the fish he was and gulped at the suffocating air.  “Sorry, what?”

 

Sherlock’s hands came up to throttle him at the gills but pulled back in time to shove his fingers atop his own head instead.  “John’s tea.  That hot liquid you just drank.  You cannot tell him that it is bad.”

 

Lestrade’s eyes darted to the door.  “Why not?  I’m sure it’s just the cup or the type of tea or something.”

 

Sherlock’s eyes widened.  Sally would not be wrong to bet fifty quid on him actually snapping.  Murder had its appeal in moments like these.

 

“It’s not.” Sherlock shook his head fervently.  

 

“So what is it?  A bad batch?”

 

“No.”

 

After a long pause in which Sherlock was hoping the gears were clicking, Lestrade asked, “Then what is it?”

 

Sherlock snapped, “It’s John!”

 

Lestrade’s eyes narrowed.  “What are you on about?”

 

“John.”  Sherlock’s fingers dug into his eye sockets.  

 

“What do you mean, it’s John?”

 

“Oh, for the love of- John cannot make tea.”

 

The pause was even longer this time until finally Lestrade, utterly at a loss, mumbled out, “John?”

 

Sherlock heaved a sigh and sank down onto the bed.  This was utterly exhausting and completely unnecessary.  “Yes.  John.  He is incapable of making tea.”

 

Lestrade shuffled to face him but did not speak, just went back to gaping.  

 

Sherlock took pity on him in the hopes it would speed things along.  “I am aware of your incredulity.  But it is still true.  John could not make a good cuppa to save his life.”

 

This blow hit Lestrade with full force, he even stumbled back, his head whipping to the door.  “Seriously?  But- but- he’s English!”

 

Sherlock rolled his eyes.  “I know.”

 

“That doesn’t- well- someone has to tell him.”

 

Sherlock bolted upright.  “No!  No one is to tell him anything!”

 

“But-”  Lestrade looked rapidly between the door and Sherlock his mouth moving faster than his brain.  “It can’t go on like this.  You have to tell him.”

 

“No!”

 

“Everything alright?”  John’s voice called loud from the kitchen.  

 

“Fine!”  Sherlock yelled back at him before turning on Lestrade.  “If you tell him what I told you, I will have no problem telling the Yard exactly what you did on May the 9th 2014.”

 

Lestrade’s eyes crinkled as he tried to remember the date, full blown horror quickly making his jaw drop.   “You wouldn’t.”

 

 _Drunk off his arse, riding a cow, a salmon atop his head._  
_Wearing red sequin bikini._  
_Bikini worn when dancing at club on stripper pole.  
_ Picture evidence procured in both locations.

 

“Try me.”

 

       1.5 Past Sherlock

 

Sherlock had the opportunity to tell John once, back when he had first moved in.  Sherlock had been handed a steaming cup of green liquid within 48 hours of living with John.  Sherlock had accepted purely as a sign of good hospitality -not needing another flatmate to scoff and walk out the door within the first week.

 

After one sip, Sherlock had spit it directly back into cup and scraped at his tongue with his fingernails.  The bitter aftertaste lingered even after the rough brushing of his teeth, tongue, and cheeks.  

 

Sherlock had put a great many things in his mouth for the sake of a case, but he had his limits.

 

Just as Sherlock was about to rip into John, demanding why he intended to kill him, he saw the one thing that would utterly unravel his every rational thought.  John H. Watson’s puppy eyes.  

 

The little man looked up at Sherlock with absolute confusion and concern, one hand reaching out as if to rest it against Sherlock’s arm, his mouth downturned, his eyebrows puckered.

 

Sherlock indeed did have his limits.

 

“What’s wrong?”  John asked quietly.  “Was it the tea?  Mine tasted fine.  Did you want to switch mugs or something?”

 

Damn the puppy eyes.  

 

Sherlock’s bit his lip and shook his head, his stomach clenching, just barely coming up with a feeble, believable excuse this near stranger would accept.  “Experiment, from earlier.  Taste still on the tongue.  It did not mix well on the palate.”

 

“Oh,” John nodded, relief washing away the pained puppy eyes and replacing the horrid expression with a smile that could light up the room.  

 

That smile sucked up all of Sherlock’s precious attention and he mirrored the action so that they were both grinning like idiots, basking in the glow of their shared amusement over something as simple as green tea.  

 

The next time John made a cup of tea, Sherlock took a hesitant sip and found it just as bile inducing as before.  This time he was prepared and kept his face as blank as a statue before waiting for John to exit the room and dumping it down the sink.

 

Sherlock thought he had perfected the evasion of John’s tea making after many experimental trials.

 

First, he threw out all the tea in the flat.  John bought more.

 

Second, he performed irreversible experiments on the kettle.  John had another hidden upstairs.

 

Third, he made a point of never buying milk.  John complained and bought milk himself.

 

Fourth, he replaced all the sugar with salt.  John bought sugar packets.

 

Fifth, he flat out refused for the sake of The Work.  John forced it on him.

 

Sixth, he bought a plant.

 

Now, the plant was rather a genius idea and it had been appreciated not only by his own intestines, but by Harriet Watson.

 

  1.  Harriet Watson



 

Harriet did not visit very often so John made it quite the occasion when she came for dinner. John bought all the groceries and cleaned the flat and made Sherlock promise to be on his best behavior or John would paint his microscope lens with shoe polish.  

 

John even bought special artisan tea.  Sherlock assured him it was simple tea dressed up in a fancy container and tasted no better than any other kind of black tea, but John refused to listen and started making it for all three of them.

 

“Oh, I don’t want any,” Harriet said straight away.

 

 _Too fast reply._  
_Fingers clenching into couch.  
Nose puckering._

 

Finally, someone who knew.

 

“You have to at least try it,” John argued, already banging things about in the kitchen.

 

“No!”  Harriet called out.  “Really, it’s fine.  I don’t want anything to drink.”

 

“You have to drink something!”  John called back in a way that screamed sibling.

 

“All it does is make me wish I had booze in it,” she argued back feebly.

 

“Shut it, Harry.”  John stomped to the kitchen doorway and grabbed the partition by the handle.  “I bought it for you and you’re having some.”  He closed the doors together and spun back behind the glass without waiting for her reply.

 

Harriet sunk back into the cushions, her nose pinched between two bitten off nails.

 

“It’s always been bad then,” Sherlock said quietly.

 

“What?” Harriet almost snapped at him, her head shooting up.

 

Sherlock looked at the partition and back at her.

 

Her eyebrows rose and she shuffled to the edge of her seat, her voice a hurried whisper, “You know?”

 

Sherlock rolled his eyes.  “Of course I know.  What’s wrong with him?”

 

“We never knew.  It’s always been this way.  You haven’t told him?”  Her voice had risen and she looked at the kitchen quickly, making sure John was not eavesdropping.  

 

The sound of cookware and mugs moving about relaxed them both.  

 

Harriet used the table to lean closer and whispered, “Aren’t you, like, completely rude and blunt?  Why haven’t you told him?”

 

“Why haven’t you?”  Sherlock challenged.

 

“I’m his sister,” she scoffed as if it were obvious.   “He thinks I’m being a bint when I say it.”

 

“Here we are!”  John announced himself with a tray of steaming mugs and biscuits on the side.  “Go on, both of you.  I’ll have no excuses.”

 

Sherlock and Harriet looked at one another and nodded minutely, both diving deep into the battlefront.  They grabbed their mugs in their hands and faced John who expectantly raised his cup and took a sip.  Harriet and Sherlock locked eyes once again, challenging, as they both raised it to their lips.  

 

One sip down.

 

 _Eyes pinched._  
_Jaw clenched.  
Delayed swallow._

 

Sherlock felt exactly how Harry looked.  

 

“Could you-”  Harry started the same moment Sherlock said, “John I-”

 

Sherlock looked to Harry and waited for her move.  

 

“Could you maybe get me a napkin?”  Harry asked John sweetly.  “The cup is a bit hot.”

 

“Sure,” John nodded and jumped out of his seat.  

 

Harry leaned over the same time Sherlock spun and they both dumped their tea into the dirt of the ficus.  Sherlock gestured for Harry to stop halfway and they both turned to John, smiles on their faces, innocently watching the steam still rising from their mugs.

 

“Here you are,” John said jovially, handing Harry a napkin and taking back his seat.  

 

“Thanks,” Harry replied absently, still looking in Sherlock’s direction, but really speaking to the plant.

 

Sherlock had plans for a ficus in every room but John was learning his methods and inadvertantly caught on.  

 

“Sherlock,” John said slowly one evening, holding one of the long green leaves between his fingers.  “I think your plant is dying.”

 

Sherlock’s eyes flashed wide open, his nervous gaze locked on the ceiling, his body frozen.  

 

“Looks like it’s overwatered,” John said softly, still moving the leaf between his fingers.  “And the dirt is steaming.  Are you experimenting on it or something?”

 

Sherlock snapped his eyes shut and pretended to be elsewhere as John muttered and shuffled about, but threw the plant out a day later.  

 

Mrs. Hudson had commented on the dead ficus half blocking her door -apparently a fire hazard, even if waterlogged- but understood once Sherlock told her the reason.  Mrs. H was a very lucky lady in that she knew of John’s horrid tea but had the ability to avoid it at all cost via respect for the elderly.

 

  1.  Mrs. Hudson



 

Mrs. Hudson usually brought tea up to her favorite tenants and the making of anything was unnecessary.  However, one night John and Sherlock paid her a visit on their way back from a case and were in her flat in front of the telly.

 

Sherlock was filling Mrs. Hudson in on the details of an exciting double homicide with a side of kidnapping and therefore was far too interested in his conversation rather than focusing on what John was doing, which was quite terrible of him.

 

John held out three steaming cups of Mrs. Hudson’s lavendar chamomile tea.  

 

Mrs. Hudson was eagerly surprised at the gesture and took it with both hands.

 

“I hope you don’t mind,” John said.  “I thought we could all use a cuppa.”

 

Sherlock did mind.  He minded very much.  

 

John questioned his glare with a look but did not comment.

 

Mrs. Hudson, the poor old soul, took a sip before Sherlock could distract her from such a notion and her face wrinkled in distaste.  Ever polite, she smacked her tongue against her roof of her mouth and inquired, “How long did you steep this dear?  It has a rather… um… potent taste.”

 

John smiled at her and took a sip himself.  “Yeah, it does.  Turned out rather good, didn’t it?”

 

Sherlock glared down at the greenish swirls and purple floating bits without taking a sip.

 

Mrs. Hudson nodded sharply with a smile plastered to her face, and settled the cup quietly in ther lap.  

 

John took another gulp and smacked his lips.  “I didn’t see any lemon in your fridge so I used the lime.  I know it sounds strange,” he held up his hand with a small chuckle.  “I wasn’t sure how it would turn out with this kind of tea but I like it in others.  Sherlock can’t get enough of it.”

 

Sherlock glared at one particular purple speck that refused to edge towards the surface of the mug.   

 

Mrs. Hudson hummed noncommittally.  “I’m afraid that one sip already has me falling asleep, my dears.”

 

John promptly sat up and downed his glass apologizing and showing them both out.  Sherlock spun around while closing the door and smirked as she pitched the lime into the rubbish.  

 

Mrs. Hudson politely declined John’s tea ever since and she could get away with it because John would never force tea on an elder who did not want it.

 

Tactic seven had been to make himself appear to be older with hints of gray hair and wrinkles deepened with makeup.  John reacted horribly, insisting Sherlock looked ill and giving him double doses of steaming mugs.

 

Eight backfired as well.  The idea had been to claim a sudden -but still very believable- allergy or aversion to all teas as a part of an experiment.  However, the sudden allergy from nowhere had been brought up to Mycroft the next inconvenient visit.

 

  1.  Mycroft



 

Mycroft eyed Sherlock curiously, his gaze already taking in all the data he needed to reach plausible conclusions.  He promptly requested John make him a cup of tea.

 

John was surprised but did not ask questions and swiftly went to work as Sherlock mentally argued with his arse of a brother.

 

_What are you hiding, brother mine?_

_Go home.  No one wants you here._

_John does.  He’s making me tea._

_Don’t you dare._

_Don’t I dare, what?_

_Don’t say it._

 

John set the tea down next to Mycroft who took a small, dignified sip.  Mycroft was a practiced politician and therefore did not move a muscle until John had turned his back.  

 

_That is absolutely vile._

_Don’t tell him._

_Why not?_

_Don’t!_

_Alright.  Take the case I brought for you._

_No._

_Then the good doctor should know-_

_Fine!_

 

Mycroft suddenly had to leave because of important business at work.  Running a country and pitiful blackmail required his full attention.  

 

With Lestrade, Harry, Mrs. Hudson, and Mycroft all keeping their lips shut on the subject of John’s tea making skills, that took care of most of the foreseeable problems.  Of course, Sherlock could not prevent John from making tea when over at his one night stands’ homes or such but the odds were in his favor.  John would not make someone else tea in their home, it was not proper etiquette.  

 

However, there was the possibility, rare as it was, that John would bring a girl home.  Such as a night where Sherlock had been out of town until that very morning.  

 

  1.  Gabby



 

“Oh my god, what’s in this?!”  Some woman’s voice pierced the air as Sherlock came up the stairs.  “Oh god, it’s vile.”

 

“What?”  John’s concerned voice rang out just as the sound of a mug hitting the tabletop sounded.  

 

Bugger.

 

Sherlock rushed all the way up the top of the stairs but by then, it was too late.

 

“This tea.  It’s horrible.   Taste it!”

 

Sherlock came up in time to see John sipping from her mug, his eyebrows furrowed.  “Tastes fine.”

 

“That?” The woman asked skeptically, pulling at the shirt draped around her skinny frame, tugging at the hem around her neck.  “That tastes like it’s got mold or something awful.  How can you possibly say that tastes good?”

 

John started to get annoyed but tried not to show it, turning instead to Sherlock.  “Hello, Sherlock.  Sherlock this is Gabriel.  Gabby this is-”

 

 _Ink stains on fingers, perfectly manicured nails, toenails match._  
_Plucked eyebrows, shaped no makeup._  
_Glasses, expensive frames, just glass -no prescription._  
_Underwear, cheap, plastic from tab still attached._  
_Purse, cheap, clean, ID badge corner reads ‘-aper’._  
_Heels, expensive, used.  
Phone, expensive, on table, light on.  _

 

“Gabby is probably not her real name,” Sherlock interrupted with a growl.  “She’s a reporter trying to get a story on us, no doubt due to our latest case with the model or whoever she was.”

 

“Actress,” John said slowly, stepping back and looking at Gabby with an outward scowl.

 

Gabby looked between the two of them and landed on John, her face pleading.  “I don’t know what he’s talking about.  I-”

 

Sherlock listed off all his observations and promptly concluded them for John’s benefit.  “You recently purchased cheap products to appear of a lower class than you are.  You no doubt told John you were a clerk or something horribly pedestrian-”

 

“Administrative assistant,” John provided.

 

“When you in fact work for a paper.  Whether that be the newspaper or a tabloid is yet to be seen.  I doubt either make enough for weekly appointments to the salon or afford a pair of Gucci heels.  Then again if you are willing to go this far undercover, I’m sure you sell more than just the story.  After all, your phone is still recording.”

 

Gabby’s eyes darted to the phone on the table but John grabbed it before she could reach.  He handed it quickly to Sherlock who flicked through the files and deleted the offending documentation.  

 

Gabby saw she was at a loss and ripped off her fake glasses and stomped up to Sherlock, taking her phone.  “I’m not in the mood for this this early.”  She turned to John.  “Thanks for the sex.”  She turned to Sherlock.  “I hope you choke on the god awful tea.”

 

Gabby stomped away, snatching her clothes and stealing John’s shirt.  Neither of them stopped her.

 

John turned to Sherlock once she was gone, clearly furious and embarrassed.  “I suppose I should thank you.”

 

Sherlock shook his head and waved him off.  After all, he had just been manipulated into having sex.  Not that it was not the case for every one night stand but this was something John would take very personally.

 

Then, John did the thing.  The puppy eyes thing.

 

“Taste this,” John said.  “It’s not awful, is it?”

 

Sherlock glared at the cup and swallowed hard.  He reached forward and grabbed it with both hands, staring into the abyss.  

 

“Sherlock?” John prompted.

 

Sherlock sucked in a breath, held it, and did the unthinkable.  He chugged.  

 

When every last drop had slithered down his gullet he smacked his lips and moaned, handing the empty cup to John.  “Fantastic.”

 

John’s smile filled the room and Sherlock had to escape to his bedroom and suck on a nicotine patch.  Anything was better than the taste lingering.

 

That would have been that if it were not for one unforeseen outlier.  

 

Birthday party.

 

          +1.  Molly

 

John had found out about Sherlock’s birthday.  When, Sherlock had no idea, for John was particularly clever in this instance.  

 

As if to punish Sherlock, John not only threw a party but a surprise party.  When Sherlock exited his room from a nap he was greeted by all their nearest and dearest while he was in nothing but his robe.  

 

Modesty was not Sherlock’s first priority but he would have liked some notice.

 

“Surprise!” they all shouted.

 

He scoffed and walked to the kitchen.

 

Lestrade, Harry, Mrs. Hudson, Mycroft and Molly were all in various states across the living room, a pile of wrapped gifts waiting to be deduced on the desk.  

 

 _Left side of table.  
_ _No tags._

 

The way they were stacked made it obvious John -the only left handed person- planned it as some sort of game.

 

“Sherlock,” John chastised for show but knew how Sherlock would react.  “Be nice, put on some clothes, and I’ll make everyone a cup of tea.  Would anyone like some tea?”

 

There was a resounding no followed by mutterings of added thanks yous.

 

Molly.  Sweet, sweet Molly, the mouse that scampered about without a clue, looked alarmed at the outbursts and turned to John and said, “I would like one, if that’s alright.”

 

Everyone in the room turned to her with wide eyes as John turned to the kitchen.  In another seemingly systematic gaze of horror they all looked to Sherlock for guidance.

 

Sherlock blinked at them.

 

“Actually!”  Lestrade said aloud.  “I’ll help you.  You’ve done so much already, John.”

 

John was putting the water on.  “No problem, Greg.  It’s just a cuppa tea.”

 

“I think I have some downstairs,” Mrs. Hudson pondered aloud, inching towards the door.  “I’ll go and fetch it.  There’s no need for you to make such a fuss.”

 

“Nonsense,” John said over a chuckle.  “You don’t need to make any.”

 

“It’s already made,” Mrs. Hudson said and then flinched.

 

“You have tea ready downstairs?”  John asked slowly.

 

Mycroft was already checking his watch for an excuse to leave but did pipe up with, “American, John.  Some Americans drink their tea cold.  I'm told they bottle it and leave it in the fridge.”

 

“Seriously?” Molly squeaked and then slid back into her chair when everyone stared at her again.

 

“You have American tea?”  John asked Mrs. Hudson.  

 

“Oh, let the lady give us the tea, John,” Harry whinged.  “If she wants us to try something new, be it on her head, yeah?”

 

The kettle started to whistle.

 

Sherlock wanted to throw his head up against the wall.  

 

John shook his head, “The water is already hot.  If anyone wants to try the cold tea, that’s fine with me.  Molly, do you still want some?”

 

Molly nodded slowly, ignoring everyone mentally skewering her.  “I don’t see how cold tea can be very good, I’m afraid.”  She quickly looked to Mrs. Hudson apologetically.  “I may try it later though.”

 

Everyone went back to staring at Sherlock.

 

What did they expect him to do?  Pull Molly over and warn her?  That would be horribly obvious.  He supposed he could find a way to destroy the tea but John would just offer another.  If everyone joined him, there would not only be a lake of steaming, disgusting water all over his carpet, sinking into the bits of rug and carpet, but John would find out.  

 

John could not find out.

 

They needed to stall.  

 

“John!” Sherlock suddenly called.  John turned to him with an eyebrow raised.  “Birthday party, really?”  

 

Sherlock tried to put as much scorn into his expression as he could but he was torn.  There was only one way to ensure that John would not find out and that was to get him to leave.  To make John leave, he had to be very, very, obviously ignorant towards his emotions.  Sherlock exceeded there.

 

John smirked at him.  “Yes, it is your birthday.”

 

“It may be my birthday but I in no way have to participate.  I will be in my room the rest of the evening.  Goodbye everyone.”

 

“Sherlock-” Lestrade started but saw Sherlock’s pointed glare.  Lestrade took a few moments more but he worked out the plan.  Slightly above average intelligence indeed.

 

John was starting to frown.  “Sherlock, you are staying.  It’s your party.”

 

“And I can cry if I want to,” Sherlock snapped.

 

“Don’t make sudden pop culture references in the hope I’ll get distracted,” John argued, his eyes flashing around the room.  He did not like to cause a scene in front of others.

 

“Let him go, John,” Mycroft said.  “After all, you should have known better.”

 

“What?” John sputtered.

 

“He’s not wrong,” Lestrade shrugged, his face screwed up far too much to be believable.  “Surprise parties and Sherlock?  Doesn’t exactly go, mate.”

 

John shook his head, an angry smile sliding over his face.  “You thought it was a good idea this morning.”

 

“Oh, come off it, John,” Harry snapped.  For her lower level of intelligence, she was quite good at reading the subtext.  “It’s not surprising, him acting like this.  And why did you invite me?  So I can watch everyone else drink?”

 

“It’s a dry party, Harry,” John sneered.

 

“You’re making tea!”  Harry yelled back.  “That’s a drink!  You know I can’t watch anyone drink anything.”

 

Clever, Sherlock thought.  Well, idiotic, but clever in that it might just work.

 

“You’re being ridiculous,” John snapped and slammed the mug on the kitchen counter.

 

“If you are leaving,” Mycroft said, standing.  “Then I will as well.”

 

Harry and Mycroft both slowly walked towards the door, Harry looking back at Sherlock.  

 

“No one is going anywhere!” John yelled.  “Harry, sit.  Mycroft, stay untill presents as agreed.  Molly-” He slammed her cuppa on the coffee table, “-drink this.”  John turned to the room, waiting for another argument, ready to stand his ground.  “Everyone is going to stay here and have fun.  That includes you, Sherlock.”

 

Sherlock’s eyes grew wide in the face of John’s genuine anger.  He was at a loss.  Molly was already bringing the cup up to her lips.  It was too late.  

 

At least, it seemed that way.  

 

Molly slowly raised the mug and blew on the steam and everyone in the room tensed, their eyes darting back to Sherlock.

 

“Alright,” John snapped.  “What the fuck is going on?”  He glanced at Mrs. Hudson.  “Sorry Mrs. Hudson.”  He turned to Sherlock and the god damn puppy eyes were turned all the way up.  “Sherlock?”

 

Sherlock felt like the idiotic fish as he gaped, his hands clenching and unclenching in the pockets of his robe.  

 

Molly was frozen with the mug just at her mouth and Mrs. Hudson stepped forward.  “Stop,” Mrs. Hudson muttered.  “Don’t drink that deary.”  She looked up at Sherlock and then to John.  “This has gone on for far too long.  John, Sherlock has something he needs to tell you.  Sherlock, take John to your bedroom.”

 

John’s brow wrinkled.  “What?  Sher-”

 

Sherlock was wide eyed and frantic as he stared at the treacherous landlady, shaking his head minutely back and forth.  

 

Mrs. Hudson smiled softly and took the mug from Molly.  “It’s time.”  She turned to address the room.  “John and Sherlock will only be a moment.  I’ll make some tea in the meantime.  Anyone want a cuppa?”

 

Everyone in the room but John, Sherlock, and Molly requested a cup.  John’s eyebrows scrunched and Sherlock’s gaze dropped to the floor.  

 

The walk to the bedroom felt like a death march.  Drums echoed in Sherlock’s Mind Palace as he approached the plank.   

 

“Take a seat,” Sherlock said, gesturing to his bed as he closed the door.

 

John slowly sunk down on the bed and looked up at him, the eyes wide and round.  “What’s going on, Sherlock?”

 

“John…”  Sherlock trailed off, not knowing where to begin or how to finish at that.  

 

John shook his head, confused.  “What?”

 

Sherlock stared at him a long moment before joining him on the bed.  He looked over at John and then out at the wall.  “You are good at a great many things, John.”

 

“Um, thanks.”  John waited but when nothing more was said he prompted,  “Sherlock?  Did you bring me in here to tell me I'm good at things.”

 

Sherlock sighed and held his head in his hands.  “Quite the opposite actually.”

 

“Okay.  And what does that mean, exactly?”  

 

Sherlock shook his head and went back to staring at the wall.  “I’m not good at cooking.  I should be.  It is basically chemistry.  But I am not good at it.  I lose interest and burn things.”

 

John looked at the spot of the wall that had Sherlock’s attention and then at his clenched hands.  “That’s alright.  You don’t have to be good at everything.”

 

“Exactly!” Sherlock perked up and spun towards John, one finger hovering between them.  “Exactly, John.  Wonderful.”

 

John looked even more confused.  “You brought me in here to tell me you are bad at cooking?”

 

Sherlock’s smile fell.  “As you said, John.  I  do not need to be good at everything.  And I want you to know that you do not need to be good at everything either.”

 

John snorted.  “Good.  Because I’m not.”

 

Sherlock nodded along.  “There is one thing you are not- If I were to point out one thing you did not- If you-”

 

“Oh for Christ’s sake, would you spit it out?”

 

“You can’t make tea.”  Sherlock bit down on his lip and looked away, towards the corner of the room where dust had collected, mocking him in their simplicity.  

 

John stared at him.  “What do you mean, I can’t make tea?”

 

Sherlock waited for the context of the the evening and everyone’s former reactions to settle in but John did not gasp in realization.  Sherlock sucked in a large breath and hurriedly muttered, “Your tea always tastes awful.”

 

John froze, his body reeling back.  “No.  Why would you- No, Sherlock.  You like my tea.  Everyone comments on it.  They love it.”

 

“No, John,” Sherlock huffed.  “They don’t.”

 

“Well, what’s wrong with it?!”

 

“I don’t know!”  Sherlock snapped.  “I don’t know what you do to it.  It’s always something.  Oversteeped.  Understeeped.  Added ingredients.  Teas that don’t go, mixed.  I don’t know.”

 

John’s mouth fell open.  “But… But you- you always finish it.  The other day when I asked you you said it was fantastic!”

 

“I lied!”  Sherlock’s body slumped.  “I’ve been lying.”

 

“If you don’t drink it, then what-”  John stopped, his gaze fading into the distance, his sad sorrowful eyes widening.  “The plant.  You dump it.  Your sudden allergy.  You...oh.”

 

Sherlock guiltily looked at his feet.

 

“But the others-”  John looked towards the door to the sitting room and slumped.  “Oh.”

 

Sherlock was not sure what to do next.   The truth was out.  Should he comfort John?  Tell him it was all an elaborate prank?  Make a joke of it?  

 

“We’ve been living together for over five years,” John gasped.  “You’ve been lying all this time?”

 

Sherlock refused to meet his gaze.

 

“Why?”  John asked.  “You’re you!  How could you possibly not tell me?”

 

Sherlock slowly glanced up and shifted on the bed, folding his hands under his legs and staring at his bare feet.  “You like it.”

 

“So because I like it you lie and get every one of our friends to lie for the sake of not letting me know?”  John shook his head back and forth until suddenly he stopped, his hand rising between them, realization finally crossing over his features.  “Sherlock Holmes.  Did you lie to protect my feelings?”

 

Sherlock’s face started to heat and he sprung to his feet.  “We should be getting back.  Now you know and you can understand why everyone wanted Mrs. Hudson to make the tea.  Consider it my birthday present if you refrain from doing so in the future.  We should return and-”

 

“Oh, no, no, no.”  A grin spread over John’s face as he stood, wagging a finger.  “You’re not getting off that easy.  You did something very, very nice Sherlock.  For over five years. Almost every day.  A white lie told to protect someone’s feelings is very _human_ of you.”

 

Sherlock scoffed and re-tied the belt around his robe.  “Please, John.  I did it for my own sake.  I can’t have you moping about the flat because you can’t make tea.  It’s a distraction.”

 

John started laughing.  “Oh my god, Sherlock.  I’m your best friend.”

 

Sherlock turned away and tried to open the door.  John darted out a hand and stopped him.

 

“Admit it,” John laughed.   “I’m your best friend and you like me.  You want to protect my feelings.  You don’t like it when I’m upset.  Because I am your best friend.”

 

“Alright!”  Sherlock hissed and then lowered his voice, gaze locked on the floor.  “Fine.  I did it to protect your fragile feelings.  God knows you’d start crying if-”

 

Sherlock stopped as John’s arms wrapped around him and squeezed.

 

“Shut up,” John said fondly and squeezed once more before ending the hug.  “You big softie.”

 

Sherlock’s arms raised but John was already gone.  

 

John strutted into the living room.  “Alright.  I know.”  He lifted his hands.  “No more tea from me.  Sherlock will be the one making it from now on.”

 

“I never agreed to that,” Sherlock mumbled behind him.  

 

John chuckled.  

 

Everyone in the room looked properly relieved, hiding behind their cups of tea made by Mrs. Hudson.  

 

“Thank you all for lying to me,” John added sarcastically and turned to Molly.  “I’ll be taking that.”  He grabbed the tea he had made her and sipped loudly, smacking his tongue.  “Delicious.”

 

Everyone in the room groaned.  

 

John winked at Sherlock and Sherlock smiled back.

 

Yes, John is good at many things.  Being Sherlock’s best friend just so happens to be one of them.

 

* * *

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I have a theory about this universe where Sherlock never actually had to fake his death because when Moriarty came over for tea Sherlock saw some of John’s tea lying in a mug and decided ‘Yes, that’ll do’ and so he re-heated it while pretending to make fresh tea and Moriarty drank it and spat it out and went ‘You can’t even make a decent cuppa, you are not worth my time, worm’ and left and never came for Sherlock again.


End file.
